


For All Your Hope

by NekoAisu



Series: do as you will (and as you must) [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Episode Prompto Spoilers, Gen, Government Experimentation, Guns, I guess???, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, Running Away, Superpowers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, gifted AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 04:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: Prompto is not so much a prodigy as he is hardworking. He's never been good at mathematics and science, failing nearly every major exam he doesn't manage to study obsessively for, but he understands why his father wants him to be the best. Heneedsto be the best there is, really, because that's what his father wants and he wants to make his father happy. He wants more food, too, and maybe a hug if his father would ever evenconsiderit, but being the perfect son his father tells him to be is easier than asking him for things.He's not perfect enough for his father to overlook his Gift, however, and soon finds himself relearning everything he previously thought to be fact about the Gifted, his father, and his country.





	For All Your Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of many short multichaps + oneshots for the Gifted AU. Most details will be explained as the series goes on, but I figured a quick rundown would help those who would prefer to have the info laid out before reading. 
> 
> This is a modern sort of AU with the usual tech and craziness of the canon universe without the daemons (because, really, Verstael is enough of a daemon as is), meaning that the real enemy here is the government and it's penchant for murdering the Gifted under the guise of 'self-defense' and 'the safety of the people.'  
> Gifted are those born with supernatural abilities. They make up a very small portion of the population.  
> MTs are not daemon-augmented cyborgs, in this case, but a government funded mini-militia comprised of people with slight tech modifications that allow them to fight and subdue the Gifted. 
> 
> This AU is a collaboration with shadownightes on tumblr! Check out her blog for some hella fine AU art <3

Prompto is not all that strange. Well, at least he _thinks_ he’s not that strange, but with his father giving him such a _look_ it’s hard to be sure.

“They speak to you, boy?”

“Yes?” His voice is barely a squeak even though he’s always been told to speak up. He can’t bring himself to answer the way Verstael always tells him to, loud and clear with his head held high, when he’s being picked apart by his stare like he’s a machine that needs to be fixed.

Verstael frowns and it’s a terrible thing, more a scowl than anything else, but he’s never really been of the softer sort. His wrinkles exaggerate the expression, lining his eyes and cheeks in a mockery of age, and he’s imperious with his silvery beard and thinning hair, towering over Prompto like a smaller version of Ramuh.

He says nothing. Well, he never just _says_ things, no, but this time he’s well and truly silent. Verstael _commands_ them all when he speaks. Everyone does what Prompto’s father wants because he’s powerful. Prompto isn’t like that.

He’s small and blonde with freckles patterning his nose and cheeks in a way that’s anything but intimidating. He’s still not quite grown into his newest pair of shoes, pants half an inch too short at the ankle, and knocks into everything. He’s still young, his father says like a prayer, he’ll be better, eventually. He doesn’t ever mention how he’s still so _hungry_ , even after eating dinner, because he’s learned better. He knows Verstael only does it for his own good, the dieting and checkups, but he still _wants._ It’s a burning in his chest, a tug at his heart that orders him to work harder to please him. He wants to be able to eat desserts like his father does, to sleep in a little later on Sundays when everyone else is resting, to not have to stand in his father’s lab while they measure and poke and prod at him like he’s some misbehaving tech. He wants to make his father happy with him _all_ the time.

So, he tells him while they walk down the bright white hallways of Verstael’s lab with his voice near to bursting with happiness, “Father, the new models are so much _better!_ They’re so much easier to communicate with!” He’s grinning until Verstael looks down on him with un unreadable expression. He may not know what it means, but he knows his father isn’t pleased with him. 

And then they’re back to the present with Prompto slowly realizing that he’s not supposed to just _know_ how things work, that there’s something wrong about him.

(Nothing Verstael says is wrong is ever supposed to be there, he’s made clear, which means it has to be removed somehow. It’s like the R–57 rifles from January having one too many grooves on the grip. They hadn’t been quite broken, but they had gotten MTs killed, so his father had called them broken. Prompto fears that he is broken, too.)

He gets no response until he’s been steered down an unfamiliar hallway and through a thick steel door. His father even has to scan his ID card to get it open and it shuts with a heavy click behind them. He asks where they’re going and why, but knows better than to push for information when he gets no response. He’s handed a gun, something brand new and shiny, and he waits for instructions before even doing so much as moving out of a rest position. He tries not to look worried, but his brows and eyes have other ideas as he slowly becomes more and more a paragon of anxiety complete with jitters and palms slick with sweat.

“Fire it,” Verstael orders with his voice the closest to vexed Prompto’s ever heard it. He watches keenly as Prompto checks the safety and magazine before raising it up and taking aim at the far wall. There are targets all along it in varying colors and sizes. He wants to impress his father, so he tries his best to hit one of the smaller ones. He misses the center by barely a millimeter, unprepared for the kick the new model sends racing up his arms, and tries not to look too frustrated. “Take your gloves off.”

Prompto does so carefully, unbuttoning his gloves at the wrist before sliding them off. The leather is bleached white, clean and unblemished, and he folds them carefully before tucking them in the waist pocket of his uniform. There’s no way he can get them dirty when they were a gift from his father. He’s a good boy and he respects his father. He doesn’t want to disobey same as he doesn’t want to do something that would make his father think he has a Gift.

Because he doesn’t. Really, he _hopes_ he doesn’t and that he’s just describing things wrong and that his father will only be cross with him. He feels terrible for that thought, for wanting his father to be disappointed in him, and it makes his heart rate ramp up further. He’s sure Verstael can hear it thumping away hard enough to make his ears ache with the noise.

All he says is, “Fire, Prompto.”

And he does, ignoring the way the weapon seems to sing in his hands when his bare skin comes in contact with it. He’s used to the flare of _something_ behind his eyes, that rush of information that’s not quite words, and it’s with barely a thought that he cocks and fires the gun. The bullet hits the farthest target dead center. His father is not pleased.

He’s a good boy, right? Isn’t not like he has a Gift, right? There’s no way. He’s heard stories from Aranea about the Gifted. He knows that they can bend elements to their will and kill people like him with a snap of their fingers. He knows they’re dangerous like he knows his father is his father. It’s a fact. Simple as that.

Verstael hands him another gun, something larger and not unlike the submachineguns combat ready MTs are allowed to carry, and must see _something_ happen when Prompto’s hands meet the metal of the barrel and grip because he takes it back near immediately. He barely has time to register the sort-of _whoosh_ the weapon had begun granting him when it was snatched away before his father speaks.

“You have a Gift.”

It’s said softly, almost like his father is scared, and it makes Prompto’s eyes go wide and his stomach flip wildly enough he’s fairly sure he’s about to lose his dinner. His father is never afraid. He has no reason to, when surrounded by the walls of his own laboratory. MTs are stationed at every corner, in every room, and always make him feel stripped down even when he’s wearing nearly the same uniform as them. They’re Verstael’s own brand of self-defense, made to take down Gifted and Ungifted alike, and carry guns with them everywhere. They all wear masks the same green he’d picked out as a child, obsessed with cactuars and loving anything that reminded him of them, and it nearly makes his nauseous.

If he’s Gifted, he’ll have to be killed.

It’s another fact, he knows, because Gifted are never kind. He remembers something about his own mother being Gifted, but the memory is hazy and he knows his father doesn’t like to speak of her. He doesn’t like anything that reminds him of her, unless it’s Prompto. Now, even that seems wrong.

His eyes sting and he can feel sobs building in his throat same time his chest seems to constrict as he pleads, “No, father, _please._ Can’t you take it away?” _I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorryi’msorrysorryso-_

“You’ve failed me, Prompto,” his father says and turns away from him.

It’s like Eos feeezes on its axis. The moment his father speaks those words, Prompto’s vaguely aware of the tears falling thick and too hot down his cheeks. He’s not supposed to cry, but he can’t _not,_ somehow.

He’s already failed, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to choke his sobs down like the most disgusting of cough medicines as he scrubs at his face in vain to try and get the tears to just _stop._ He calls out with a voice already heavy with sorrow and terror, hoping to some forgotten god that his father would turn around and at least give him another chance to fix things, but he’s ignored.

The familiar _shh-click_ of the door shutting and locking behind Verstael is unmistakable and Prompto fumbles for his own card. It’s not in his pocket, however, because he was supposed to go shower and then head to bed after dinner. He’s not supposed to even still be in the facility, but here he is, clawing at unforgiving metal and bawling his eyes out over a stupid thing he can’t control.

He just wants to be good, can’t his father see that? He _is_ good! He’s gone to bed on time, doesn’t ask for extra servings when he’s done eating, and makes sure he doesn’t speak out unless his father gives him permission to do so. He’s passed his exams in every subject and pulls nearly record-making scores in all the physical drills and simulations his father has trusted him to take. It’s the least he can do to make sure his father is happy with him. All he has to do is make sure he’s never bad at them.

The issue is that “bad” is a relative measure. It can mean one errant shot during a simulation, or a 43% on his mathematics test from the week before. It can be a Gift that has allowed him so much of his father’s love.

Prompto cries himself to sleep, curled up against the door like he’d somehow wake up on the other side in the morning, with the gloves clutched in his grip like a lifeline.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is good feedback! Please leave kudos and commentary if you enjoyed reading <3
> 
> Yell with me on:  
> Tumblr - kiriami-sama  
> Twitter - FlamingAceKiri  
> Or join me on the FFXV Creators' Haven Discord (invite link available via tumblr)!


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